


Trapped

by Rachel24601



Category: Prison Break
Genre: F/M, Handcuffed Together, Kidnapping, Lust, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-02-24 09:00:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13210413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rachel24601/pseuds/Rachel24601
Summary: Sets during season 2, after Bad Blood. Kellerman and Sara wake up handcuffed to each other with no memory of what put them here, it's the perfect occasion to settle some scores.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by a “Castle” episode, in which the two protagonists wake up handcuffed to each other: I thought the situation would fit my favorite Prison Break pairing all too well. Hope you enjoy it. Reviews are always welcome.

 

The room Sara discovered when she opened her eyes was almost pitch black. It was a few seconds before she realized that her memories of how she had ended up there were equally obscure.

High on the surface of a night-blue wall, she began to distinguish a small round window, through which you could catch the darkness of the sky, that hinted dawn would not break for at least a few hours. Her situation vaguely brought to mind an array of summer camp stories. None of which ended well.

The air was not exactly cold, so perhaps fright was to blame for the shiver that made its way through her , causing her body to move ever so slightly, and it was sufficient to inform her that she was not alone. What became equally evident was the steel bracelet around her wrist, which seemed tied to the motionless, man-shaped figure lying at her side.

A blend of horror and shocked outrage tore a gasp from her upon recognition. The man was none other than Paul Kellerman, whose presence here she doubted would prove a coincidence. Questions were fusing, shooting stars across her brain. Had he put her here, had he drugged her, why handcuff himself to her, why go through any of this? It had not been so long since the gang had dropped him in Chicago. The strangulation marks around his neck had faded to angry-pink streaks. Most likely, he too would find their predicament unlucky.

Regardless, Sara thought that searching him for a key while he was still unconscious was not the worst idea, and cautiously slid her uncuffed hand inside his jean pocket. The gesture flushed her cheeks with disgust. If she had woken up to him doing this, she would have thought he was molesting her.

The cry of surprise which broke from her lips sounded ridiculous to her own ears, as he somehow caught her forearm briskly. His hold was quite as tight as the handcuff on her other hand and, shortly after, he was pinning her to the ground, with a near-reflexive conduct. It was a while before he actually seemed to see her. The weight of him on top of her felt disgraceful.

“Sara?” He said in recognition.

He was apparently too startled to stop her from kneeing him in the stomach and shoving him off, though to little use, as the handcuff tying them together caused her to fall on top of him as he went down. She struggled for a vain few seconds before finally finding her way back to the ground.

Anger appeared to be legitimate and she inquired, “Where are we? What did you do to us?”

“What I did?” He laughed briefly with stun. “You may think me as evil as you like, Sara, I am utterly innocent in this whole affair.”

“Innocent? Please.”

“Why would I kidnap you?”

“For the same reason you did weeks ago.”

“Very well,” he conceded. “Why would I _handcuff_ myself to you?”

“I don’t know, to throw me off.”

Kellerman achieved standing on one knee, steadying himself with the palm of his hand, pressed to the ground, leaning closer to the young woman. Sara’s eyes had gotten used to the dark, but the precise expression on his face was still difficult to make out. “Believe me,” he said, “I am every bit as thrown off as you are.”

His proximity was uneasiness. Sara thought of motel bathrooms and New Mexico. A steel determination rained down upon her within a minute: he would mark her hesitation and no doubt enjoy it.

“If you have any suggestion as to how we got here and why,” he resumed, “I am all ears. Well?”

Working with him immediately struck her as ridiculous. On the other hand, he was presently her only human companion, and what else was she to do?

“Do you remember anything?” She asked in the end. If either of them tried to take full control of the situation, he was likely to be on the winning side. And yet, part of her would enjoy this – would enjoy them settling scores now, once and for all, without any regard to whether it was smart.

“No.” He said. “Not as to how this happened. I’ve got nothing past Friday evening – going back to my motel room. Taking a shower.”

“I don’t need to hear this.”

“Why, what’s the last thing you remember, Sara? A nap sandwiched between both brothers? I must say I’m surprised you managed to vanish out of their sight, I would have watched you more closely.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m going for bold.”

“Terrific.” A sigh escaped her. She was this far from starting to claw at him to see which one of them would come out alive. “This is precisely my idea of a perfect weekend.”

“You think I’m happier than you are?”

“This is more your type than mine.”

“How is this my type?”

“Like I said.” Resent was an animal harshness in her voice. “Kidnapping. Handcuffs.”

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do. Though by all means,” he added, with a smile she did not fall for, “let us get Gila out of the way now, before things get awkward.”

“ _Before_ that?”

“There’s nothing to say on my side, our past is fine by me. If you must know, I rather admire that you tried to kill me.”

“How magnanimous.”

“You don’t have to tease.”

They looked at each other for some time. The air she drew in was dense, charged with heat.

“Well.” He said after some time. “It just seems to me that you and I are going to have to find a way to work with each other, at least for now. Would you like an apology?”

“Absolutely not.”

What Sara would like, would be to tell him plain and square, all of the things that she thought about him, things she thought would hurt him, somehow, if she said them with enough style. You’re a liar. A fraud, hanging on to a great reason why he did plenty wrong without acknowledging the reason was an excuse, a mere justification.

Instead she focused back on their problem, sought distraction in pragmatism. “You think the company might be behind this?” She asked.

“Possibly. There would have been easier ways to get rid of us though – and I can’t imagine why they’d put the two of us together. It just seems like a very bad joke.”

“Beneath them?”

“Just out of character. They don’t have that kind of humor.”

“Maybe they need us for information, for things that we know.”

“What kind of things?” He asked.

The look she gave him was cold and righteous. “As if I’d tell you.”

There was another while of silence, debatably over five minutes – neither of them had a watch. At some point, Sara glanced back at the round window on the wall and wondered, “Do you think we can reach that?”

“It’s too high. And anyway, too small for us to climb our way out.”

“But it’d give us a hint as to where we are. I might be able to reach it if you carry me.”

He arched an eyebrow with an air of faint amusement. “Are you working on a strictly professional mode here, Sara, or does the idea thrill you?”

“What do you think?”

“Let’s give it a try.”

It was actually more physical and less glamorous than she would have thought, perhaps she should have said nothing of it. Her left foot was in his hand, her right knee on his shoulder, her waist against his face. All the while, he was keeping disturbingly quiet. She would prefer even a disagreeable remark to the intensity of silence.

“Would you lift me a little higher?”

“I’m afraid this is as high as you’ll go,” he answered. “Can you see anything?”

“Not much. It’s very dark.”

“Take your time, Sara. It’s not like anyone is being trampled here.”

“Oh, my God.” She articulated, without so much an effort to sound surprised.

“What is it?”

“I think we’re on a boat.”

“A what?”

His grip on her leg slackened enough for her to lose balance and the both of them crumbled like a house of cards. A flash of pain sprang from her ankle which Kellerman was crushing. If there was anything which she had damaged on their way down, he didn’t complain.

“Why did you say a boat?” He asked immediately.

“There’s ocean all around.”

“You don’t know that. You said it was dark.”

“I know what I saw.”

Kellerman was silent for a few seconds. “I had gotten the idea that we were on a moving vehicle,” he admitted. “I wouldn’t have thought of a boat.”

“I thought the drugs were messing with us,” she said, “making us feel things we shouldn’t.”

“I suppose that’s a blotch on your recovering addict program.”

“Are you being deliberately insulting?”

“Most of the time.” Especially around her, which wasn’t such a smart thing. Kellerman had always had a thing for redheads. “Are you hungry at all?” He changed subject. “I may have a candy bar somewhere.”

“Really, you’re the type?”

“Now is not exactly the time to be picky.”

“Thank you, I don’t want your food. For all I know, it’s poisoned.”

The look on his face was unamused. “I would poison a candy bar?”

She only repeated, “For all I know.”

“My,” he said with a sigh. “Isn’t this going to be a fun ride.”


	2. Chapter 2

She was a snorer as it turned out. Well, really a kind of loud breathing that was enough like snoring that he might tease her about it. Kellerman had known plenty of those, one-night stands who occasionally spent the night, making that peaceful, regular noise, and it was amusing to add Sara to the box, to know intimate things about her, really, it made him feel powerful and somewhat sardonic. What you would call cute snoring. ‘Cute’ was not something that Kellerman was sensitive to, he was actually a much more extreme-driven sort, caring not for pretty but the truly beautiful, the sort of beautiful that changes your definition of the world, leaves marks on you like third-degree burns.

Though he supposed Sara Tancredi was a looker, a little too skinny, a little too tall, but a lovely smile and a certain candor that was just asking for some indecent initiation. The thought had been lurking in the back of his mind from the start, and oh, wasn’t it a shame to have her believe he was gay and in a committed relationship?

She probably ought not to sleep in so serene a fashion, after having been taken to some unknown location, by some unknown enemy, and being handcuffed to a, granted, well-known one. As though his reflection had penetrated her dreams, she awoke and recovered an immediate defensive posture.

"Good morning." He figured that was as good a start as any. "Did you sleep well?"

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know, you kind of looked like you were.”

“Yeah, right.”

Daylight was breaking through the small window, her long hair glowing and autumn-crimson, her face still imbued with the peachy warmth of sleep. It was a little strange, Kellerman thought, being so close to her, filling him with a surreal sense of entitlement, as though he might reach out and touch her cheek, her shoulder. He had not been closer to her when he was torturing her.

“Well,” he resumed. “It’s a good thing that you slept. Now, we can really focus on getting out of here.”

“Of course, you were waiting for me to rest a while before coming up with a plan.”

“It’s the chivalrous thing to do, Sara.”

“You don’t strike me as someone particularly chivalrous. And don’t call me that.”

“What,” he feigned being surprised, “by your name? How clumsy of me. Would pet names be better?”

“I don’t think you’ll dare.”

Terrific, he thought. It could not be later than 8 p.m., already he was irritated and she was furious. It was probably worth something that the very fact of his saying her name would anger her, a kind of demonstration that they could not be any worse for each other. _Sara_ was likely the wrong name for her anyhow, piecing together such harmonious sounds. Of course, she hated him saying the name because he loved saying it, her being so well aware of how to rile him – how could she not?

“Well,” he said for some reason, maybe none at all. “I think I’ll go for ‘princess’. No, wait – what about ‘cupcake’?”

“You think you’re being funny, Kellerman?”

“Forgive me for trying to communicate with my fellow prisoner. You may not like it, sweetheart, for the time being, it’s you and me against the world.”

“I think it’s me against you and the world. You call me sweetheart again, I’ll punch you, Kellerman. You’ve degraded me enough as it is.”

“I am not _trying_ to be degrading –” Annoyance had made its way into his voice. “How am I to work with you if I can’t call you anything?”

She answered most immediately, “You’re not.”

This got him exhaling with frustration. “You know? I might have a very plausible idea why you and I were put here together. Whoever did this must have known that if they'd locked you somewhere alone, you would have struggled until you found your way out, if they'd locked me alone same thing, but you and I _together_?"

Though she made no verbal reply, he could see her clenching her jaw. “You know,” she said, “that’s another word I hate to hear you saying.”

_Of course, it is._ Instead he smiled, deliberately humorless, and answered, “At least we can agree on one thing.”

…

“You do realize,” he said, after a few hours had gone by, an attempt to coax her into cooperating, “that every minute that we’re wasting here, precious time in which we could be devising ways to escape, is a minute where your poor boyfriend is worried sick over finding you?”

“Please,” she lingered disdainfully on the word, “don’t drag Michael into this.”

“Just work with me here.”

“I cannot work with you, Kellerman, there is no work _to do_. Exactly what are you suggesting?” Exasperation looked good on her, all wildness and charm, the kind her hazel eyes and pleasant face seemed unused to. “Vanishing into the air, melting out of these walls?”

“Well, perhaps chopping off your hand. Mine is bigger, it would take longer.” He sighed and added with an eye-roll, “Don't grow a sense of humor or anything.”

She replied, overly serious, “If there was anything with a cutting edge around here, I would have used it.”

“That’s cute, Sara. The sooner we get serious though, the sooner you can get back to your beloved brothers.”

“Right,” her tone was an irascible shade of condescending, “Love is funny to you, Kellerman, isn’t it? Maybe you shouldn’t talk about things you don’t understand.”

“I understand Michael Scofield using you to get his brother out of prison,” he remarked. “In fact, I would say I am perfectly familiar with such mechanisms. Maybe we’re a lot alike, your boyfriend and I.”

“You’d like to think so.”

Annoyance burst in his breast again. The thought of strangling her flashed fleetingly through his brain. “You know what? I’m actually not any more inclined to be stuck here with you than you are. I know I said I didn’t resent your trying to kill me, but I find you’re not the easiest person to live with, Sara. Not easy at all. Why all the drama, tell me. Did daddy spoil you?”

“So, it’s not enough for you to kill my father, you really have to criticize his education.”

“ _Why_ must you invent reasons to resent me, when you have so many as it is? I did not kill your father, Sara. And deep down,” he admitted, “I believe you know that.”

“Oh, so you’re what, my scapegoat?”

His mouth broke into a smile, strangely honest. “No,” he said, with confidence, “you don't do it because you need to blame someone. You do it because it's me. You need to hate me,” he stated.

“You’re giving yourself a little too much credit.”

“If I were wrong,” he argued, “you would swallow back your pride and do something about our situation. So let me tell you now, Sara, or whatever else you want me to call you, that I _know_ you hate me. You do know that it's _unclear_ things that need to be pointed out. Right?”

She was silent for a few seconds. "If you're even insinuating that –"

"Insinuating isn't my type. As you may have noticed in New Mexico, I’m not one for wasting time. I'm a much more direct type. So, I'll tell you what, you want to see your boyfriend again? Work with me, don't ignore me; the choice is simple really, you suck it up or die, and since my life is physically bound to yours I'm going to have to force your hand a little on this. You just put your feelings aside, all right?" He dragged in a slow breath before finishing. "And I'll do the same with mine."

There was no time for her to answer before the door was suddenly slammed open. It was so unexpected that both prisoners went still with startle. The agent that stepped in was standing straight as a statue and he merely put a plastic tray with meagre rations of food down on the ground and was out the door without saying a word.

"Hey wait!" Kellerman shouted – the door was thick but the slit between the bottom and the floor was large enough for the sound carry if the guard was still in the corridor, maybe. Either way, if he was going to attempt saying anything to determine who had abducted them it needed to be now. "Tell Caroline she's getting sloppy!"

Silence was crushing and absolute for a while but then the door was opened once more and the guard reentered the room, unhooking a bludgeon from his belt and striking Kellerman across the face. Just once, to make a point.

He and Sara were propelled to the ground, at the guard’s feet, who remained impassive. “You show off again like that,” he warned, “I’ll hit her, see how you like that.”

The man was gone as quickly as he had come and Sara struggled to a sitting position, which was difficult as Kellerman was still lying down. “What were you thinking?” She said, reproachful even as she was inspecting his face. “I think your nose is broken. You look terrible. Your cheekbone could use a couple stitches, so bravo, now you’re an injured asshole.”

“Oh, you maddening, infuriating woman –” He let out as if under the effect of some inebriating fever. “I was trying to see whether these people were from the company.”

Pain always took a most terrible toll on Kellerman, and now his hearing appeared to be damaged because Sara’s lips were shaping undoubtedly angry words yet he could not compel himself to hear a single one. His sight, too, was impaired: there was a haze, all around Sara’s face, though bringing her into fuller focus. He actually saw her better. Saw the medical-professional concern on her face blended with the various shades of outrage and the lovely pucker between her brows. Her lips moving in complete silence were actually a sight to behold, pink with the remainders of lipstick that would probably taste of strawberry gum. That blow was heavily messing with his head. His sight had been altered one way or another.

“Well,” she resumed, “I don’t suppose it did us much good, now you’ll leave blood everywhere. I hope you don’t feel like a hero or anything.”

“You’re beautiful,” he answered, ignoring the words she said, sounding weak from the blow but profoundly unashamed.

“Excuse me?”

The outrage on her lips looked pretty enough to eat. It was plain enough that a lot of men had called her that before, though not in exactly the same way as he had. Surprise and the inappropriateness of it all made her silent, her cheeks red with heat; she was burning up.

“What did you just call me?” She said, her tone full of warnings, giving him a window which he should probably take, if indeed he intended their cooperation to work.

And yet he chuckled to himself, and repeated, “Beautiful.”


	3. Chapter 3

"You know what? I think we're on the border of ridiculous here."

"I agree."

Well, that was unusual; Kellerman couldn't exactly claim he knew Sara Tancredi, at least before he'd woken up chained to her – and that had to be some kind of twisted joke – because eating blueberry pie or Chinese takeout while watching _West Side Story_ inside a woman's apartment, even sharing a couple of deep conversations, surely this wasn't enough to really know her – being handcuffed to her however…

And if there was something Paul had learned in the past couple of days, it was that Sara Tancredi would never agree with him, whether he was right or wrong. To her, he'd always be wrong. Which meant the end of her sentence was probably coming, and it surely wouldn't be as docile or _agreeing_.

"If you had the slightest bit of chivalry," she continued dryly, "you'd let me have the fork."

She actually might not be wrong on this one. If the company agent – who’d done a great job at bursting his nose, by the way – had bothered to give them two separate plates of food or a pair of knives and forks, there wouldn’t be cause to argue. Of course, Kellerman found that just about anything was a decent cause to argue, with her. Which one of them it came from was fluctuating and probably beside the point. The cutlery was plastic, sadly, nothing even remotely dangerous; and come to think of it, it might not be so unlucky, considering the unwavering, irascible glimmer in Sara’s gaze.

“Chivalry?” He echoed, sounding more sardonic than he ought to. Sarcasm slithered into his voice with such reptilian ease. In the end, whether Lance or Kellerman, he was always playing some sort of act with her. What would honesty look like, with that woman, he wondered. The barrel of a gun or her teeth biting into his lips?

Her eyes were set intently on the floor, ignoring him was a full-time activity. Kellerman couldn’t leave it at that, still. She looked _way_ too fine when she got angry, and it just seemed like a mockery of nature that, every time Paul Kellerman had truly wanted something, he had had his way – always. A mix of luck and talent had ensured, all his life for, that whenever some whim began to torment him with tyrannical longing – and it did not happen so often – he would systematically wind up getting what he wanted. There had been an exception, of course. _The_ exception. Caroline. But then, he’d fooled himself into thinking that he did not really want to marry her, that what he wanted was what he got: watching her beam in the spotlight, loving her from backstage, being her soldier, her shadow-man. Ever since Caroline Reynolds had happened to him, it had become even rarer for Kellerman to want anything.

It made things simpler, he thought, to define things as such. Staring at the attractive redhead in her stormy silence, Kellerman reckoned this might just be what Sara was. Just the next thing that he wanted. The number-one toy on his Christmas list. Could be. From the moment he had spotted her, from inside his car, her hair auburn and long in the autumn breeze, he had taken to smiling in such a predatory fashion as if beguiled by the smell of fresh meat. She had enticed him. And, _please_ , could it truly be a coincidence that, after a couple of movie-sessions at her place and a, granted, considerably less pleasant episode in a New Mexico motel room, he happened to wake up in a dark room with the young woman shackled to his hand? She might as well have been delivered to him, gift-wrapped on a silver plate.

No doubt, she would hate him all the more if she had access to these thoughts. Then it occurred to him that she might have guessed what was on his mind, at least in part, but refused to look as if he frightened her.

“Well.” Sara cleared her throat. Uncomfortable, he deduced, and wondered whether it was sick to be proud of this or if he even cared. “Not that you’d know what it's like."

"What, chivalry?" He said – and there was that foxy grin again. "Unlike Michael, I presume. I should have known you liked your men gallants."

"I don't think you'll ever begin to understand what I like in a man." Spoken, of course, with fiery disdain. This wouldn’t be fun if she didn’t feel the need to demonstrate her dislike for him every minute, however pointless, it wasn’t as though he’d forget – as though she'd forget.

"No, of course," he said, the grin well in place, "but I'm sure I can guess. You want respect; hell, who doesn't? And Michael, I'm sure, treats you with as much respect as you need."

Sara’s lips were a tight line of suspicion. There was no way he was actually saying something nice. Not with that smirk.

"I mean," he went on, forsaking the plate of slimy beans in the tray between them. "He does respect you, doesn't he, Sara? Respects you too much to sit next to you in a train," she flinched when he mentioned their trip to Chicago, "respects you too much to display his emotions in front of you, or even actually exhibit any affection."

Her hazel irises were ablaze with anger, the shade so mellow it seemed wrong for it to betray anger. Sara’s hands tightened into fists, which instantly loosened when it caused her knuckles to brush against Paul's. The handcuff chain between them rattled.

"Respect really _is_ something, isn't it, Sara?" He said – should probably stop, there was no point in it, his eager waiting for that sparkle of sadness in her eyes, if not to determine whether it would make _him_ feel anything. "And Michael respects you, doesn't he? To the eyes of all, he is this tender-hearted ice man who finally took you away from your miserable life, but when looking closely, you can't help but think – maybe he respects you a little too much to love you."

He didn't feel victorious when she lowered her eyes, though her vulnerability felt fresh, unexplored, of a different material from what he had discovered in New Mexico. When he’d drawn her head underwater, every single time, and especially the last, she had looked strong. What were waterboarding and electric shocks compared to the persisting thought that it had all been for nothing, that the reason why she had done it would never matter enough to whom she had done it for.

"You know what?" He was surprised by the determination in her voice when she spoke again. "The fact that you'd believe love and respect are two separate things doesn’t surprise me at all."

"Really?"

"Well, how could you know better? You've never experienced either."

It made him chuckle, his laughter so genuine she looked unexpectedly worried, without a prepared reaction.

"Amusing." He lied, laughing sincerely though, especially at the shocked expression she was wearing. "Come on, Sara," he said, and familiarity probably wasn't a good idea right now, but he couldn't think of anything else to loosen her up. "We're stuck in this _together_." It had to be the tenth time he said that. "So, you can keep that frigid disgusted look on your face all you want, you know we're going to have to cooperate at some point. We're going to have to find a way to make this work." He changed tactics with a shrug. "I mean, I don't know for you, princess, but I'd like to get out of here sometime soon."

"Yeah, well –" She'd answered too quickly and now the rest of her sentence wouldn't come out. It was because of the pet name; she hated it when people called her 'princess', probably because of her father, and so many idiots had called her that in school. "I'm actually working on that." She finished.

" _Oh_." He spoke sarcastically. "Here I was, worrying that we were going to die in here, when all this time we were safe because Miss Tancredi was planning a little prison break. Foolish me."

"I don't see you having some ideas of your own." She shot back.

He did not reply and looked at her quietly, for a moment. He wondered if the smile on his face would look honest, right now, which would be bad news. It was all right for Sara to be a mere item on his wish-list, but honest joy was rare for him, the last time had to be when he and Caroline had celebrated what they thought was the end of the Burrows case. Clearly, his current situation was no cause for celebration.

A heated blush painted her cheeks at his insistent gaze. His sincerity might destabilize her even more than his lies. “Where is that discomfort coming from, Sara?” He said, now deliberately serious. “I thought we’d agree that we would work together, get out of here twice as fast. What is it?" He still sounded sincere – too sincere. "Is it because I said you were beautiful?” That ought to make her blush all right – he wasn't disappointed. "I meant it." He continued. "You are –"

"Don't." She interrupted, though he could trace the urgency in her voice, almost a plea.

He watched her, tense, jaw-clenched, and he thought if he touched her, right now, she would be cold as ice. Of course, he would be mad to touch her.

"I guess that guard crushed your sanity along with your nose." She stated coldly.

It occurred to him, then, that she would sooner have him hurt her and tease her rather than to accept a single compliment from him. One that he meant, on top of that.

Probably, he should be satisfied with what he’d got, if it was easier for her when he was an inconsiderate jerk then he could make it work; he just didn't want to. He should back down, just stick to the plan – no, invent a plan; here it was: wait by the door for a guard to come and punch him in the face when he'd get there, steal his keys, then run towards wherever it was the exit could be. Kind of primal and it could use a little more thinking, but a plan still.

Right now though, Paul Kellerman didn't want to just stick to the plan. Sara's face was still turned from him, he had to work out the image of her face through a curtain of red. He wanted to sound soft, gentle, a wolf dipping its paw in flour to pass for a lamb.

"Did anyone ever tell you you're beautiful?" He went on. “Did Scofield ever tell you that?"

She kept silent, of course.

What Sara was thinking was that Michael had told her, actually. To say so would sound spiteful, but this was not the reason why she didn’t. It was when they met at the train station, after Gila, after she'd been forced to run for her life and stick a needle in her own skin instead of visiting a hospital. During that brief glimpse of relief when he held her, after brushing her hair with his fingertips, she believed he had said it – that she looked beautiful. A bitter kind of anger jammed her throat at her inability to remember, to know for sure. Truly, if those exact words had left his mouth, they had made no impression on her. Coming from Michael, they would have sounded like a compliment, would have spread a fluttering sensation in her stomach. It would not have had this intensity, as when Kellerman said it, the word vibrant, as if uttering a painful realization which needed to be delivered. For a split second, she, too, had felt its vibrancy, its feverish exaltation.

Sara had known then, that whatever had awakened in her in this boat cabin, when Kellerman had called her beautiful, would never be stirred again by any man, not even Michael. Which was all right, because Michael loved her, unlike Kellerman, and respected her. And their love was all that love was meant to be – strong, a little coy, tender with devotion. Most certainly, Kellerman did not love her; but if he had, Sara was suddenly convinced it would not have been traditional. The thread of thought proved impossible to repress. If Kellerman loved her, the act of it would be all-consuming, hot and hungry, and it would be an _act_ , would not be content with temporary promises and occasionally holding hands.

If Kellerman loved her, Sara thought, it was more than likely that either or both of them would end up dead in the process.


	4. Chapter 4

She was sleeping again.

Legs slightly folded as she lay on her side, an arm across her stomach and the other one – the one that ended with a steel bracelet and the chain binding them together – stretched forward, the back of her hand resting against the cool cement floor.

It hadn’t ever occurred to Kellerman before, how obscene it was to watch a woman sleep.

Delicate lids and long lashes gave her face such a girlish look, and the oddly abandoned position of her body, the few auburn locks plastered to her cheek and forehead. It was transgressive, like seeing her naked, like reading her thoughts.

_Are they pleasant dreams we’re having, beautiful?_

Maybe he’d tease her about it later, but he couldn’t think of it, right now, the impression of being a voyeuristic bastard was too strong, making him feel very hot in his clothes.

At some point, a kind of sigh slipped past Sara’s parted lips, sending a bolt of nervous excitement to Kellerman’s chest. My God, he thought, it’s like being a teenager caught masturbating. The more time they passed shackled to one another in that small dingy room, the less sure he was of what exactly he wanted her for. “Who cares,” he muttered to himself, not loud enough for her to hear him in her near-awake state. “Let’s call her my guilty pleasure.”

She started stirring next to him, rolling a few involuntary inches closer before blinking her eyes open and drawing back. There was no time wasted before her eyes regained that blend of scorn and caution. Kellerman nearly started thinking the lovely and peaceful sleeping woman he’d watched for maybe an hour and a half had been a dream herself.

“Had a nice nap?” He inquired.

“Any break from our current situation is an improvement.”

“If you’d like to indulge in another few hours of sleep, Sara, I won’t be the one to stop you.”

“I think I’d rather hear about that plan you told me about.” She straightened up a bit, extraordinarily careful not to move the hand that was handcuffed to him. As though the body part were infected with a most repellent and contagious disease.

"Well, as I said, I'm still working on the details."

"Right. Like getting out of this room."

"Which is not the most difficult part, I think. Only the more problematic.”

“Yes, that’s one word for it.”

“See,” he resumed, “I’ve been trying to estimate what kind of boat this is. We’ve only got this room to go on and a glimpse of the corridor, but I’m starting to get a feel of how big it is. If Caroline Reynolds did put us here – and I’m betting my money she did – then I guess I can sort it out according to her habits.”

He was slightly surprised that Sara sighed exasperatedly at him. “What does it matter, guessing what sort of boat this is?”

"Well, for starters, there's the location of the rescue boats." He grinned. " You thought we were going to escape swimming?"

"No. Shut up."

Actually, what Sara was thinking was that by now, she might have found a way to contact Michael or at least get rid of Kellerman. She’d done pretty good at the swimming lessons her dad used to buy her and it was the middle of July so she thought, if it came down to throwing herself overboard or enduring another interrogation, yeah, she’d take her chances with the ocean. Rescue boats weren't a completely stupid idea either.

"So, if I get this straight," she went on, "the plan is to reach the rescue boats, which you _might_ be able to locate?"

"No, I _know_ where they'll be. I'm thinking, if I'm right about the boat, I'll know where to go and to look, too, so we won't be wasting time searching through dozens of corridors. So basically, when we get our opportunity –"

He was going to get into details, talk about how they’d need to run without waiting for a second, trusting nothing but his memory to know exactly which turns they'd have to make until they'd reach the deck, but it occurred to him it’d be a waste of breath. It was best that she still needed him, for as long as this lasted.

“You know what?” He said. “Let’s not go through it all. When the time comes, you’ll follow my lead.”

A most expected angry red spread to her cheeks. “I have to trust you, Kellerman, is that it?”

“Well, seeing I can’t very well sketch you a blueprint of that boat, I suppose you’ll have to take my word for it.”

“Is that the only option?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t think of tattooing it on my chest.” He smirked at her. “I’m no Michael Scofield.”

"No, that, you're not."

Kellerman grew quiet at her retort. It occurred to Sara it wasn’t the safest sort of quiet.

Spending so much time with Paul Kellerman, she’d come to realize there were several kinds. There were those awkward pauses, when she ignored him and he stared at her with that odd way of his; then angry sort, when he annoyed her and she unsettled him, and finally, there was what came after both of those, after they'd ignored each other, after she'd grown annoyed and blurted something mean or demeaning – then he would just look at her with those cold blue eyes, and the third kind of silence would set. The icy one.

She cleared her throat. "So, hum…" Though she wouldn’t flatter him by lowering her eyes, she never risked to meet his. “What are the other details you need to work on?"

Her speaking first came down to asking for truce, Kellerman decided. He wasn’t sure whether she did it because she trusted his experience or because she was still afraid of him.

"There isn’t much." His tone was anything but casual, his eyes still burning through her fences, her face, although half-concealed by a curtain of auburn hair, still flushed at his insisting gaze. “After getting out of this room, we'll need to be quick, there can’t be any mistakes.”

"Right. Once we get out."

“Trust me, Sara.” He half-sighed. “This room isn’t the big issue.”

“It is, so long as we’re locked in.”

“Oh, it’ll be a piece of cake, getting out of here.”

Smiling, waiting for her to take the bait. She did so with a disgusted eye-roll. “All right. How are you planning to get out of here?"

He shrugged. “We’ll wait by the door, and the next time an agent comes to bring us food, I’ll attack him, steal his keys, and we’ll scramble for the life boats.”

"What?" The shock in her voice was delicious.

“Too Cro-Magnon?” He said. “I’ll have to make your boyfriend give me lessons.”

“That's your plan, really? What if next time it's not one agent but five?"

"Then I punch all five of them. Maybe even use you as a human mace, now wouldn't it be fun to practice _that_?"

"I'm serious, Paul."

"So am I, beautiful."

"For Christ's sake, would you stop call–" She swallowed back the rest of her words, deciding he enjoyed it way too much. From now on, she'd just be deaf to every pet name he'd call her, especially _that_ one. She figured maybe if he saw he couldn't get to her anymore, he'd stop trying. Or try harder. "There are _so_ many ways this plan couldn't work," was all she said, being sure to sound cold as ice.

Not nearly as cold as the footsteps which sounded in the hallway, barely audible through the metallic door, coming their way.

Kellerman’s lips broke into a smile. It was his game-smile. "Well, I guess we're both about to find out."


	5. Chapter 5

' _To err is human – but it feels divine.'_

_Mae West_

Silence in the room was smothering, ice-solid. Anticipation was racing in Sara’s heart. The footsteps got closer and the lock on their door was pulled open. This moment went beyond description, beyond words.

Time had been suspended and, as if to make up for that, the next sequence happened too fast for Sara to grasp it all. She felt stuck in a place where time was standing still, incapable of following. There weren't ten guards, as she’d been fearing, or even five. There was one, and it was probably the same one who'd punched her temporary cellmate in the nose – she would be able to tell for sure if she got a clearer look at his face, but she never did.

Kellerman struck.

His attack on its own wasn't particularly startling. What truly dazzled her was the speed – how quickly it all happened. One second Kellerman was sitting there, the back of his cuffed hand brushing the soft skin of her knuckles. The next he was up in a swift jump, at the guard’s throat. Speed was his asset, what he used to surprise people. She could tell from the elegant swiftness of his movements, something she would have never imagined from Paul Kellerman, for some reason – he looked like the kind of man who _intimidates_ , threatening you with a gun rather than attacking you.

As odd as it may sound, before that day, she had simply never thought of Paul Kellerman as a man of action.

Thanks to the small but persistent chain binding their wrists, Sara was pulled along when he got up. She barely had time to watch the expression of surprise on the guard's face when Paul's fist collided with the spot right between his eyes, knocking him out unconscious and probably breaking the ridge of his nose. Accident or willful revenge? She’d probably never know, because soon the boat was rocking and she and Kellerman were crumbling against the wall. Her head banged while and his weight was pressed against her. Then, she couldn’t even say _ouch_ , or _bastard_ , or _what the hell?_ because time was still catching up on her and moving too fast for her to go along.

Giddiness was upon her suddenly. No way this was happening – could there be a worse time to faint? Consciousness was ripping in fragments before her eyes. Her lips moved. She tried saying something – maybe _sorry_ ; it might have even been _thank you_ – but there was no time, no time at all, because though her head hurt and Kellerman’s body was touching hers, the door was staring at them, wide open. This was all that mattered.

Without a word, Kellerman wedged an arm beneath her knees and used their locked hands to steady her. She couldn't tell how much time had gone by when he escaped through the corridor.

It probably had been a matter of minutes.

…

At first, he assumed the shock alone had made her pass out, or maybe even the hit on the head which he’d apologize for later. Then, after a few minutes, he started wondering if unconsciousness hadn't turned into drowsiness; she remained woozy for a while, mumbled a few words. Of course, he didn’t have time to try and make out the words she said, but then his name came out and his ears pricked wide open.

Scrutinizing her face, he noticed the small pucker between her brows. The name she said was _Paul_ , not Kellerman, and then it wasn’t really laden with hate or anger as he was used to.

Maybe what she hated most about him that he unhinged her. Maybe what disgusted her most about him was that he didn't disgust her at all.

When Sara opened her eyes, she felt a little like she’d been kicked out of time. A blue world danced around her and nausea sank in. She realized she was lying down, her head rested on a folded blanket. All she could see was blue. For the first time in two days, Sara was looking at the sky.

She straightened up too fast. Before she could vocalize her bewilderment, a firm hand pressed against her ribcage. Actually, it was a bit higher than that; it was that space just below her breasts. Kellerman could almost feel her heartbeat quicken against his palm. He shoved her back down and her body gave in without protest; it took her a few more seconds to find her voice.

"What _the_ _hell_ is going on?"

"Don't get up." He said for an answer.

She noticed he was sitting down; an odd movement of swaying made realization burst in. "Are we on a boat again?"

"Yes, but a better boat. A rescue boat. What an appropriate term."

Sara half-sat up again despite his glare being full of warnings. He could go to hell. Now was no time for him to start caring about her well-being. Despite herself, Sara let out an exhale of relief, discovering their surroundings – nothing but blue skies and blue seas. When Kellerman looked back at her, the thought crept in that his eyes were bluer than both.

"Careful, princess." He warned. "No hurried gestures, okay? If you fall, I fall. And I don't know for you, but I'm not so much in the mood for a swim."

"Course not." She muttered. "I get it. I just want to sit –"

"No." He pondered on what reason to give her, other than that liked kneeling over her stretched out body. Feigning to focus on the functioning of the motor to stall for time, “You're still disoriented," he said in the end. "It's better you cool off before you do anything rash."

"Anything rash?” She sounded offended as if he’d insulted her. Every word coming out of his mouth was probably an insult to her. “Anything rash? What am I going to do, make us both go overboard?”

“Just lie still.” How she must hate him for saying that. “It’s for your own good. You needed rest, get some more.”

“How is my own good any of your business?” Her mouth ran without her; she knew very well what he had to answer to that.

Silent, he lifted his chained wrist, bringing her hand upwards along with his. "Sweetheart, so long as we aren’t out of those, your business is my business."

Out options, Sara swept the motorboat with her eyes. "Are we out of trouble?" She asked, a kind of truce.

"I wouldn't say that. We have a little head-start. It all depends on how long before they realize we’ve escaped."

"But for now, we're in the clear?"

He didn't answer for a while; didn't want to give her false hopes. "Well, the current’s been helping us. We're going in the opposite direction they are; I've stolen a few of their maps on our way out of there. And our boat is smaller, and fast enough – yes, I'd say things are looking good." He locked eyes with her before she had time to flee. "I told you it was going to be a piece of cake."

Her silence was hot, abrasive. "Are you expecting me to thank you?"

He shrugged. "Why not? I saved your life."

"You tried to kill me."

He repressed an eye-roll – she would kill _him_ if he dared. Instead, he settled for a serious enough, “So did you.”

"Rightfully so."

He laughed, and it was so sudden and surprising it chilled the marrow in her spine. Shaking his head, smirk still in place, Kellerman looked more terrifying than he ever had, with that smile – his predator smile.

Sara didn't spook easily; hell, she'd worked in a male prison for three years, but she’d never felt quite so much a _prey_ than she did when Kellerman looked at her like that. How quickly he’d moved, earlier, striking the guard – like a panther, a wild animal.

"All right," he said; he looked too pleased not to have noticed the fear in her eyes. "You're right, Sara, we've got issues to work on. Why don't you get it out of the way now? Why don't we get it out of the way _right_ now?"

She swallowed, thinking if he didn’t unlock eyes with her, she’d die, yet incapable of looking down or saving herself. Suddenly, the strangest, most insane thought occurred to her. That Paul Kellerman scared her so much, the smart thing would be to want him either as far from her as possible or as close – closer than right now. Skin to skin. She banned the thought from her mind – it was probably the hit on the head talking. Still color rose to her cheeks, and heat surged to her collarbone.

And he noticed.

Of course, he noticed.

"Well?" He urged, and something in his voice made her flinch – made her shiver.

"What?" She answered, wanting to look calm, knowing she wasn’t fooling him for one second. She could never fool him. Never had been able to, never would.

Even though all he did was fool her.

"Get it out of the way." He repeated, eyes blazing wildly. "Our _issues_." He rephrased, growing impatient on the outside only – he was toying with her. Toying. " _What_ do you say, Sara? I don't know for you, but I'm getting a little tired of these unresolved feelings we've got going on. How about it then? There's water all around if you want to take your revenge."

"Shut up."

"No then? I'll behave, I promise. What else do you want to hear, an apology?"

He hadn't said she could, but she straightened up into a full sitting position nonetheless – she reckoned she'd literally melt under his gaze if he overhung her one more second.

"I don't want _anything_ from you."

She lowered her eyes while she still could – it didn't matter that she'd let him win, that she'd looked away first; she was pretty sure nothing would have mattered if she hadn't looked away soon.

She could still feel his eyes on her though.

Cold yet burning. Scorching.

Dizziness was slowly evaporating from her thoughts and soon the reality of her situation hit her. She was alone on a boat with Paul Kellerman, escaping God knew who, sailing away to wherever. He'd saved her life. And perhaps for this, she hated him a little bit more.

“Well,” she cleared her throat. Tried to force him to look elsewhere. "Shouldn't you be – sailing or something?"

"It's set on automatic mode."

"Oh." That was a shame; now, now that there was nothing more to plan, nothing to _do_ , Sara felt unclothed under Kellerman’s gaze.

The past two days rushed by in her head, them waking up there and staying alive. His calling her beautiful. _He doesn’t love me_ , she said to herself, for some reason. _He can’t_. But if he did, what a fierce, merciless love it would make.

Every parcel of her skin seemed to boil beneath the touch of his eyes. A whole different kind of torture – the kind that might finally saw through her resistance.

“Would you stop doing that?” She said.

“Doing what?”

“ _That_. Stop looking at me. What do you want me to say?”

“Like I said. Thank you would be nice.”

“You didn’t save my life. You saved _your_ life, mine is just incidentally bound to yours."

Wasn’t that how the best love stories happened? Kellerman said instead, "Does that make you any less saved?"

The sigh that came out of her throat was hoarse, inexplicably erotic. “All right. You saved me.”

"And?"

She gritted her teeth. "Thank you." Then she waited, waited for him to do his part, but she could still feel his eyes burning through her, and her heartbeat quickened in panic – panic, yes, that's what it was.

She looked at him, bewildered – almost as though after all this time, she still expected him to keep his word. She only acknowledged her mistake when he trapped her eyes into his own and locked her there. Swallowing, her throat dry, her cheeks crimson. It _was_ fear. She forced the thought into her brain to make sure she wasn't losing her mind. And it was easy enough to believe it, because she was undeniably scared of Kellerman. Yet part of her was determined to believe that's not _all_ there was. There couldn't actually be more to those symptoms. Nothing like desire. She hadn't been touched in three years, this was certainly enough to account for her response – it had nothing whatever to do with Paul Kellerman.

He watched her in silence, took his time – by the time answered, she'd forgotten what he was answering to. The smile on his lips was at its cruelest. "My pleasure."

...

Self-control had never really been a problem to Paul Kellerman. He had never really needed to contain himself before. But given a clue to this earlier in his life, he probably would have never imagined he'd repress such an urgent need – he might have surrendered to it already, had Sara Tancredi merely been an impulse he craved to satisfy. Had she only been enticing, and not beautiful. He'd wanted her from the first but seeing her like this, blushing and quivering, her red hair cascading behind her back, pink plump lips helplessly inviting – he was sure he'd never wanted her _more_ than right now.

She wanted it, too.

He could read her like an open book, always had been able to, but there was something different now – now, he suspected he might only see what he wanted to see. So he restrained himself. Maybe because he'd always despised men who were slaves to their impulses, a few of his colleagues who liked the job because it gave them power over anyone. Mainly though, it was for her he held back.

Not because she loved Scofield. But because he respected her – at least now – enough to wait for her permission.

And so he looked back at the ocean, insides boiling and furious, turned on and plainly dissatisfied. "I think we're flowing somewhere in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico." He spoke dryly. "I'm not too sure where your boyfriend is right now, and I don't know when or if we're going to cross path with him again. If I were you, I wouldn't hold my breath."

"Excuse me?" She sounded rather angry than outraged, and it made him clench his teeth. This was a _very_ bad time to test his patience. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?" She reattempted and breathed in angrily at his lack of answer. "I'm sorry, do you expect us to walk the road together like two attached-at-the-hip buddies?" She looked away and sighed. "Once we get out of these handcuffs, you go your way and I go mine."

"And exactly how do you expect to find your boyfriend? He's a fugitive, Sara, and he's smart enough to know that if he wants to stay alive, he better not make himself easy to find."

"He knows I'm missing." She persisted. "He – he's probably already searching for me."

He didn't counter; truth be told, he wasn't even in the mood to torment her right now. Keeping his eyes set on the sea, careful not to turn around – if he looked at her, he'd snap. He was sure of it for some reason. If he looked at her, he'd give in to temptation.

"Do you have an idea, anyway?"

Kellerman sighed. She should be silent right now. She should make him forget she was there.

"To get rid of the handcuffs, I mean." She continued.

Everything about her teased his patience. The slight awkwardness in her voice, the way she swallowed or ran her tongue over her lips. He made his hands fists, holding on to any reason he could find not to throw himself on her and pinning her small body beneath his. The rest would happen naturally, he imagined. Every cause for maintaining his self-control was softy crumbling.

"You, hum –" She cleared her throat slightly. She really needed to stop sounding so deliciously coy. "Do you think we could find something to pick the lock or something?"

"Sara." The way he spoke her name was so harsh he might as well have slapped her – it caused more red to surge to her cheeks, in realization. It was a warning. "Stop talking, right now."

The urgency of the moment made her forget to feel insulted. She obeyed, wordless, still reeling from the impact of her name coming out of his mouth. His back was half turned to her, but she could see his hand closed upon the edge of the wooden boat. The knuckles were turning white.

It was suddenly very hot, on the small motorboat, and Sara started smothering inside her tight white shirt. She waited, obliviously realizing her breathing had gotten noisier – he had noticed too, of course.

Given the intensity of his warning and the fear quickening her pulse, she wasn't exactly sure what drove her to speak – but even before she said the words, it felt as though she was sealing her fate. "Paul?" Part of her had to be aware she was dangerously taunting a lion in a cage; maybe she did want revenge for his torments; maybe she simply unconsciously wanted him to snap. "Can you at least tell me what this is –"

She never finished her sentence.

Once again, things happened very fast.

His lips crushed hers almost brutally, smothering the rest of her words and what seemed to be the beginning of a protest. He struck as quick as he had when attacking that guard, only this time he used his strength to pin her wrists above her head, maintain her body steady beneath his. Loud gasps for air escaped her; her head was spinning again. Thoughts shot senselessly across her mind, and just when she thought of resisting, he kissed her again.

Different from the way Michael kissed her.

Unlike the way any man had ever kissed her before.

Unwillingly, her lips parted under the stroke of his tongue, and she heard herself utter a half-smothered moan against his mouth – sadly, it hardly sounded like a protest. He was strong, but he didn't kiss her brutally, even though it wasn't exactly tender. He was impatient, eager to discover her, but he took his time tasting her, stroking the inside of her mouth with his tongue, biting down on her lower lip. It made her cry out in surprise, and again, she wished it could have sounded a little angrier. His body was pressing firmly on hers, and it felt too good not to stir any guilt, but it wasn't something she could focus on right now – not when he rolled her hips into hers once.

Oh god.

This was getting dangerous. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew this, and inwardly vowed never to go this long without sex again – this was the only reason why she was enjoying this, really. She tried to force the thought inside her brain but then forgot. The sigh she exhaled when he freed her lips barely sounded like hers, but all thought disappeared again when he started exploring more of her. Her jaw-line, her throat, then her collarbone – she didn't even feel sane anymore. Probably, guilt would surge in later on, but it didn't really matter because at that second, she realized what was going to happen – Paul Kellerman was going to make love to her. Not because she'd asked, or objected for that matter, but because at the point they were at, it was simply all that could happen.

It could no longer not happen.

He pumped his hips into hers once more, slowly, but the movement let her acknowledge his strength, and her body started to quiver. He hadn't even gotten her out of her clothes yet. She'd grown deaf to the whispers and moans parting her lips, probably a few encouraging words she could no longer think of holding back. His lips strayed to her cleavage, and she helplessly writhed beneath him as he tasted salt and perspiration on her skin. His hands were still carefully closed around her wrists, giving her an excuse not to touch him – perhaps, after this would all be over, it would erase the pangs of remorse.

And then, there was a noise.

Slight, and barely noticeable; a metallic clatter which barely caught her attention, but her eyes found the source before she could help it – a key.

A ridiculously small key, which had fallen on the wooden bank of the motorboat. The sight of the object didn't make sense right away – not until Kellerman lifted his face from her breasts, and that look in his eyes explained everything she needed to know.

This was the key to their freedom. The key to the handcuffs that bounded their fate together.

And he'd had it all along.


End file.
